


A Moment Alone in the Shade

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Established Relationship, Injury, Light Angst, M/M, Power Imbalance, Protectiveness, Rank Disparity, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton tends to his wounded general, and Washington is uncommonly affectionate.





	A Moment Alone in the Shade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aidennestorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/gifts).



They're separated from the others when Hamilton realizes his general is injured.

They were a small enough contingent to begin with, ill-prepared for combat. The mission should have been simple enough: scouting locations, supplies, basic information. Otherwise Washington would never have allowed Hamilton along. The man's infuriating protectiveness has only worsened since they reached a more intimate understanding; never mind refusing Hamilton the battalion he has earned, Washington would never willingly bring his chief of staff deliberately into a confrontation with the enemy.

The skirmish—quick and bloody and not entirely victorious—is well behind them now. Unfortunately so are both of their horses, hopefully in the care of Washington's remaining escort.

Little good it will do Hamilton and Washington themselves right now. They'll have to requisition new horses, or return to camp on foot, so slowly everyone will think them killed in action. It won't be the first time Hamilton has been presumed dead, but at least this time Washington is right here at his side and will know he's safe.

Not that Hamilton regrets his close brush with mortality. Hellish and terrifying, no point pretending otherwise, but after…

After his triumphant return, interrupting his own wake—after the joyful relief of seeing his friends and donning a clean uniform and all the fanfare of returning from the dead—after headquarters finally cleared of well-wishers and witnesses, only Washington remained.

There is only Washington _now_ , and under the dubious cover of a sparse forest Hamilton helps his general to the ground. Washington settles with his back to a thin tree. His hand, pressed tightly to his side, is already tacky with blood.

"You should've told me you were hit," Hamilton hisses as he kneels at Washington's side and works at the buttons of the heavy surcoat. He continues on to the ivory waistcoat, not at all happy with the way the fabric is staining a muddy red. There are no witnesses to hear him chastising his superior. Only Washington, who rarely calls him out for insubordination in private and certainly will not do so here.

"It's just a graze," Washington says, but he grimaces as Hamilton peels sticky fabric away from his skin.

"I'll be the fucking judge of that." Hamilton nudges Washington's hand away so he can get a look at the wound. He startles when Washington's clean hand closes heavily on his shoulder and squeezes tight.

"Are _you_ hurt?" Washington asks in a tone that brooks no evasion.

Thank god he can answer honestly. "No."

Any other response and Washington would make an immediate fuss, regardless of his own wounds.

Hamilton bites down an unhelpful surge of anger. He doesn't need his general to coddle him. He doesn't need a nursemaid, he needs to be allowed to _fight_. He doesn't need protecting from all the same dangers his fellow officers face. 

Even knowing _why_ Washington is so protective of him does not render the special treatment tolerable. It does introduce an unfamiliar element of caution: he _does_ know, and he won't allow himself to become a dangerous distraction.

"Good," Washington says simply, a glint in dark eyes. "In that case I'm glad you're here."

 _I'm glad you're here_. The same words Washington said to him after the river and the wake and the sudden quiet as even John Laurens grudgingly departed from headquarters. Simple, blunt, but not damning. Not a confession. If Washington had spoken only those words, nothing would have changed.

But thinking him dead must have stretched the general's self-restraint to the breaking point. Another moment—a span of uncharacteristic silence on Hamilton's part—and Washington reached for him. Impossible strength in the hands that took hold of him. Desperation in the mouth that claimed a sudden, furious kiss. Radiant heat in the body that shoved him across the room and pinned him to the wall beside the window. Dawn was not far off, but there was time enough; there had to be. If Hamilton didn't seize this opportunity—if he didn't make it clear he welcomed the wordless confession—surely Washington would never touch him again.

Perhaps if he'd considered the offer with his brain instead of his heart—perhaps if he'd refused the invitation to his general's bed—he would not have such stifling protectiveness to contend with now. Perhaps he _would_ already possess command of a battalion of his own.

Unlikely, he supposes. Washington well may be the only man on the continent just as stubborn as Hamilton himself. Simply refusing the man's attentions would not have done away with the feelings running beneath. It would not have stopped Washington from meddling in Hamilton's affairs, and it would not have made him any more willing to send his chief of staff into battle.

There's little point wondering what might have been, regardless. Hamilton has never been strong enough to refuse something he desperately wants. Nothing could have prevented him from accepting Washington's offer. And in all the days and weeks of secrecy they've shared since, he has never once regretted his decision.

"You're worrying over nothing," Washington says as Hamilton uses the edge of the general's shirt—already wicking red—to wipe away enough blood for a clear look at the wound.

"Hmm," he breathes, a noncommittal sound despite his relief at discovering Washington is right. It's only a graze. The cut is long, running a slanting angle along Washington's flank. But it's not deep. Despite the quantity of blood, the harm isn't serious. "Do me a favor anyway. If you see any flaming chariots descending to take you to Heaven, tell them to fuck off."

Washington's laugh is startled and loud. It cuts off with a grimace, but mirth lingers in his voice when he says, "You wouldn't be joking if you feared for my life. I did _tell you_ it's just a graze."

"There's no need to be smug about it," Hamilton retorts. He's breathing easier now. "Hold still and let me dress the wound."

He has to sacrifice his own shirt to do it—unfortunate considering how scant the army's resources—but he works quickly. It's not enough. Even a cut so shallow will need proper tending and clean bandages when they return to camp. But it will do for now.

"Thank you, my boy." Washington's eyes track him with amusement as Hamilton shrugs shirtless back into his uniform jacket.

"You don't need to thank me," Hamilton mutters. "Just try not to get shot next time." He is so accustomed to Washington striding through danger unharmed, it's terrifying to consider the general might be as fragile and mortal as the rest of his dwindling army.

"Come here." There is a particular tone to Washington's voice, an eagerness that only emerges when they are truly alone.

Hamilton stares, incredulous. "You are _wounded_."

"Barely." Washington's mouth quirks at one corner, the faintest hint of a smile. " _Come here_ , before I ruin your good work by fetching you myself."

Hamilton considers. Washington is _not_ badly hurt, and the dim gray of dusk is already falling around them. Turning the copse of trees gloomy. Summoning the first guarded shadows of night. They _are_ truly alone, well hidden, and even were they not it won't matter once nighttime is truly upon them.

Besides. They can't skulk to the nearest farmhouse until darkness closes in completely. They don't know how near the enemy might be, or how numerous. There's no reason to refuse his general's demand—no reason Hamilton will heed anyway—and so he moves. As carefully as he can, doing his damnedest not to bump the freshly bound injury as he settles astride Washington's lap.

"You're shivering," Washington observes with a hint of worry. His hands come to rest at Alexander's hips, heavy and warm.

"The sun is setting," Hamilton points out in his most reasonable voice. "And I have no shirt."

"Then I will have to keep you warm," Washington murmurs. He manages not to sound suggestive, despite the nudge of his hardening cock between Alexander's thighs. When he gives a firm tug, Hamilton slides willingly forward. Washington's chest is warm, his arms a circle of heat as they loop about Hamilton's waist. His eyes flash with a fire all their own in the instant before he closes the distance and presses a kiss to Hamilton's parted lips.

Hamilton opens further, welcoming the sweep of his general's tongue. He accepts every touch like a promise and clings to Washington fiercely.

When the kiss ends he cannot hold his tongue. "You're a hypocrite, you know."

Washington blinks at him in distracted confusion.

"You refuse me a command. You insist on protecting me from the very challenges I enlisted for. And yet you have no regard at all for your own safety. You would leave me behind without a thought."

He isn't certain enough to voice the accusation aloud, but he thinks the musket ball that clipped Washington was actually meant for _him_. He remembers the chaos of the unexpected skirmish, and strong hands shoving him to the ground so hard he lost his breath for several terrifying seconds. Difficult to track who was where from his spot in the dirt, but he is nearly sure of his suspicions.

"My dear boy," Washington murmurs with quiet feeling. "I would never willingly leave you. But I can't command a battle from the safety of the rear flank. And I cannot focus on what needs to be done if I'm distracted with worry for you."

"But—" Hamilton begins, only to be silenced by a second frantic kiss.

"I'm sorry," Washington says after. "I know it's not what you want. But I need you. The army needs you. And whether I live or die, when this war is over _your country_ will need you."

Hamilton is vibrating with frustration, with need, with emotion. He is not sure what possesses him to admit aloud, "I want no part of it without _you_."

Washington's expression gentles.

"Don't look at me like that." Hamilton sulks. He despises the idea of Washington finding him weak. Sentimental. In his better moments Hamilton recognizes an answering softness in his general, but he still can't ignore the voice in his mind insisting he needs to be always stronger than he is.

"I will not lie to you, Alexander. I won't pretend our chances are good, or that either one of us can be certain of surviving this war. But if only one of us should live, it _needs to be you_."

" _Don't say that_." Hamilton lets all the force of appalled denial show on his face.

Washington only smiles. "Calm down, my boy. I have every intention of being there to see the new nation you're going to build."

It is patently _not_ a promise. But it's as near as he's likely to get, and it's better than nothing. Hamilton grudgingly subsides. His heartbeat slows gradually to a more reasonable pace as the fight bleeds out of him.

When Washington nuzzles warmly at his jaw, Hamilton tilts his head to bare his throat. Never mind that he is exhausted and shivering and aches from fighting. Never mind that this is careless—allowing his general to bite and kiss possessive bruises into his skin—bruises he will not be able to hide as he returns to camp without shirt or cravat. Never mind the blood and sweat between them, or the general's wound that must be painful even now.

Never mind all the reasons they should not do this at all.

Hamilton hungers far too earnestly to tell his general to stop. He twines his arms across broad shoulders and breathes a desperate sound, pleading without words.

Washington holds on more tightly and gives him exactly what he wants.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: **[Chariot](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/103669.html)**


End file.
